


Why Can't You Be Happy, at the Emerald Bar?

by floweringscrubs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 08:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringscrubs/pseuds/floweringscrubs
Summary: << A retired snake would be content to live out the rest of eternity in this warm, cozy book shop-- free of distraction and excitement-- but Crowley is smarter than to believe the same for Aziraphale. He knows there’s a certain power, carefully hidden under all that tartan and parchment. One which is young and well refined and which he once possessed, too, long long ago. A power that now, sitting unrestrained and uninhibited by the laws of Heaven or Hell, crackles and ripples just beneath the surface, aching to see the light of day once more.So, if he’s being honest, it doesn’t surprise him when Aziraphale stops reading with a righteous huff at the end of The Pardoner’s Tale. Crowley cranes his head up, squinting hard before opening his eyes wide in an attempt to focus on what the angel is going to say.Aziraphale closes his book with a quiet thud, turns vaguely to him and speaks in a whimsical tone which fails to hide the true, hedonistic ferocity behind his declaration.“I want to go flying.” >>





	Why Can't You Be Happy, at the Emerald Bar?

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired, naturally, by Queen's "Spread Your Wings"

Like any other, completely unremarkable London evening, the night outside is quiet and chilly-- any stragglers from the evening commute striding quickly along, hands stuffed deep into their pockets. Our scene, though, takes us inside the warm corner door of _A.Z. Fell & Co_ which has, unsurprisingly, been closed since the mid afternoon-- if it was ever open at all. 

The yellow shine of lamplight frames the ever familiar bookshop, distorting through several empty wine bottles on an end table, glasses red-stained and strewn haphazardly to the side. Demon and Angel alike are washed over with a warm, hazy glow. Whether such a glow comes from the old lamp and all the dust, the shine of a drunken evening, or good old ethereal energy is anyone’s guess.

Aziraphale reads aloud, sitting relatively straight at one end of the antique couch. Crowley is requisitely draped over the majority of the same couch, his head thrown back over the far armrest and his legs resting over Aziraphale’s lap. The thrum of Chaucer’s iambic pentameter pulses like a metronome, lulling Crowley’s mind to far away places, despite the grounding hand which rests on his shin in between page turns. 

Its a month after armagedidn’t, and from the outside looking in, life is sublime. There are no miracles or temptations to trade, no reports to submit. Heaven and Hell have kept their word and Aziraphale and Crowley had been left alone. 

And in that sudden calm-- in the realization that, for the first time in centuries on earth, angel and demon were free to do as they pleased and were more similar to each other than they’d ever be to their respective head offices-- the not-quite-so-much-a-demon Crowley had finally found the safety and the courage to tell Aziraphale the truth.

Some weeks ago, in true dramatic fashion, Crowley had gotten himself positively sloshed, worked up his nerve, and then sobered up abruptly in mid sentence-- leaving himself no time to back out of a six thousand year old confession.

Crowley had admitted that he loved the angel. And really, after millenia of holding it in-- deep, passionate love coiled tightly and ready to spring forth at even a slightly too long brush of fingers or a bit too knowing smile-- finally saying it turned out to be the easiest thing Crowley’d ever done.

The words had been quiet, then blurted out, then stumbled over, smacking the angel in the face with something he probably already knew. There had been a split second of tension, an easy reply in kind. Then, a messy, bruising kiss, and the whole of it all had melted into, well,  _ this.  _ The same relaxed nature of life before Crowley had said those words, just with the knowing that he had, in fact, said them. And now he could relish in the feel of the angel absentmindedly stroking his leg as he read, instead of looking on from the adjacent chair.

In fact, pretty much every evening has looked just like this one, once the shock of it all had worn off. The ease which pervades the bookshop as Aziraphale continues to read has become incredibly routine, which, compared to the drama of the last eleven or so years is a welcome reprieve. 

Though, if he really thinks about it, the lack of drama and adventure have been nagging at the back of Crowley’s mind. Not for his own sake, no-- he’d lived through the first betrayal and the fall of Lucifer, after all. But for that of his angel, quite a bit younger and only now at odds with heaven and his own faith. 

A retired snake would be content to live out the rest of eternity in this warm, cozy book shop-- free of distraction and excitement-- but Crowley is smarter than to believe the same for Aziraphale. He knows there’s a certain power, carefully hidden under all that tartan and parchment. One which is young and well refined and which he once possessed, too, long long ago. A power that now, sitting unrestrained and uninhibited by the laws of Heaven or Hell, crackles and ripples just beneath the surface, aching to see the light of day once more.

So, if he’s being honest, it doesn’t surprise him when Aziraphale stops reading with a righteous huff at the end of  _ The Pardoner’s Tale.  _ Crowley cranes his head up, squinting hard before opening his eyes wide in an attempt to focus on what the angel is going to say. 

Aziraphale closes his book with a quiet thud, turns vaguely to him and speaks in a whimsical tone which fails to hide the true, hedonistic ferocity behind his declaration.

“I want to go flying.” 

* * *

Crowley gulps, scrambling slightly to withdraw his legs from the angel’s lap and sit up straight, the alcohol purging from his system with a slight gurgle as he rights himself and fails at an attempt to look level-headed. 

“I’m… I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Angel,” he blurts then, forcing his voice into what he hopes is a low, pondering tone. 

“Why ever not? It’s not as though the humans will see us and head office surely doesn’t care anymore.”

Aziraphale peers curiously at the demon, sitting far too rigidly an awkward distance away and working his mouth open and closed, trying to defend his statement with a reason that doesn’t come.

When he doesn’t respond, the angel continues on, shifting his weight to face Crowley and looking more and more alight by the second. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face, his eyes dancing with words the demon can’t properly hear and upper body wiggling ever so slightly with the memory of wind rustling feathers. He smiles then--bright and sure-- and closes his eyes, breathing deeply as though inhaling the smell of the sea from the top of a mountain. 

The clarity of it is enough to pull Crowley back to reality some, and the angel’s voice swims back into audible tones as he continues reminiscing. 

“Oh I remember how lovely the Pyrenees are this time of year! Gosh, which Autumn did I spend there? 1890? 91? Hmmm, of course we could just go for a short jaunt, tonight! St. James park is as good a place as any, don’t you think?” 

Bright blue eyes peer at Crowley once again, wrinkling with confusion after a moment when he sees the demons face, yellow irises bleeding into white and the rest of him looking positively green as he hangs his head, breathing suddenly ragged.

“Are you quite alright my dear?” Aziraphale sobers up quickly and squats down in front of Crowley, looking up to him with concern and placing a gentle hand on his knee. 

“It’s just, well… I’m not really sure that I….” He stops then, grimacing and turning his head to the side. He places a hand over the angel’s, squeezing lightly before releasing his wings into this realm with a dejected  _ whump. _

A small smile creeps back onto Aziraphale’s face as he looks around the demon, taking in the oil-slick shine of Crowley’s wings. 

“Beautiful…” he breathes, twining his fingers with Crowley’s to keep himself from reaching out and stroking the ebony feathers. 

Crowley’s eyebrows knit together tightly, his pupils drawn to tight slits as he takes stock of Aziraphale’s face, written over with unrestrained wonder. 

“No, angel, they’re… just--” In one motion, he pulls the angel up to the couch and takes his place, sitting on the floor in front of Aziraphale’s knees, his wings spanning the length of the couch and then-some. “Look they’re… crooked.” 

“Whatever are you talking about darling? They’re gorgeous!” 

Crowley makes a small tutting noise in response to that, which earns him an affectionate “no, really!” 

He shakes his head in disgust and out of the corner of his eyes, Crowley watches Aziraphale reach out, ever cautious, to touch the sleek feathers. He holds himself stock still, wings trembling finely with tension as the angel brushes his fingertips over a short, superficial covert, inhaling sharply at the impossibly smooth feeling. 

“They really are lovely Crowley,” he whispers, nearly to himself. “If a bit tattered. Would it be alright if I…?” 

He trails off when Crowley nods, all too quickly, tucking his head to his chest as Aziraphale sits up to the edge of the couch and puts both hands into the feathers, feeling at first and then starting to groom, smoothing down barbs and straightening out each primary on one side, then the other. 

The angel politely doesn’t comment when Crowley’s breathing goes from tense to ragged to easy and deep, when he watches his wings transition from rippling to pliable under his ministrations. 

He definitely doesn’t say anything when he switches from grooming to petting, then to the much more human task of working at the flesh of Crowley’s shoulders and upper back, the muscles become supple under his fingers. 

Aziraphale, really, truly, actively says nothing when, upon leaning forward with his chest brushing Crowley’s now lax shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck, the demon lets out a low sound only to be described as a moan. 

The angel smiles against his skin, kissing the next spot and the next, making his way leisurely down one of the demon’s shoulders. Crowley’s head lolls back against Aziraphale’s own shoulder, and the angel smirks, assuming whatever insecurity Crowley held about his wings’ appearance has been well-assuaged. 

He continues his ministrations, sliding his hands up the demon’s shoulders and out over the ridge of his wings. Aziraphale’s arms only just reach the alula, and he gives a light squeeze as--- 

“ ** _NGK_ ** ” Crowley gasps, breathing in sharply as his head snaps back up and he lurches to his feet out of the angel’s reach, spinning around to face him and nearly upheaving the coffee table in the process. 

His wings are gone with a harsh wind, stirring Aziraphale’s hair into a messed fluff and leaving the angel with a horrifyingly perplexed look on his face. 

The demon looks wild, then, his eyes darting back and forth and chest heaving, looking for an escape and finding none. 

Aziraphale wisely doesn’t move, for fear Crowley might miracle himself to the next continent. He takes a steadying breath, relaxing his features and peering at Crowley with soft, crinkled eyes, a completely honest, calming love written over his face.

“Did I hurt you my dear?” 

The question is quiet, even keeled, and Crowley shakes his head slowly, sighing raggedly before answering. “No no not… not hurt, exactly. They don’t really-- anymore-- hurt that is.” 

He looks to the angel and away, to the angel and away, willing him, hoping that he will somehow, miraculously just  _ know  _ everything that Crowley isn’t saying. 

But of course, that’s not entirely possible, even with all of the actual miracles they can perform. So instead he eventually relents, taking the angel’s impeccably timed outstretched hand and settling back onto the couch with a small sigh. 

He tries to explain, he really, truly does. But words don’t come-- its not as though they ever do-- and Aziraphale is being just so positively, intentionally  _ patient  _ that finally Crowley turns on the couch, his back to the angel, crossing his long legs underneath him and unfurling his wings again. Its slower this time, much of the tension that the angel had worked out re-entering his slim frame. 

Without a word, he grabs the angel’s wrist from behind him and deposits his hand on the same spot along the wing ridge that had made him jump up earlier, flinching now but otherwise staying still. 

The angel, turns, pulling his feet up as well, and grips the corner of the bend delicately, squinting a bit. “Crowley, I don’t understand what… _ oh... _ ” 

He trails off as he feels it then, a band of bone the width of his fist-- hidden by a padding of feathers-- which is distinctly denser and thicker than the rest of the wing frame, placed just where the wings are meant to have some bend, to control one’s speed and direction while flying. 

He places his hand gently on the middle of Crowley’s back before reaching over to the other side, feeling a similar, if not slightly larger, band of poorly re-formed scar tissue, just slightly more midline on the opposite wing. 

Images flit before his eyes then, bringing explanation to a concept he’d never really tried to imagine. He’d seen renditions, of course, human depictions of falling angels-- body first, wings hopelessly slack, pools of burning sulphur waiting to singe pearlescent feathers to a permanent obsidian. 

He’d never quite asked himself  _ why  _ though. Why does the angel literally  _ fall _ to the depths of hell? He supposed it was just the feeling of the word itself.  _ To fall. _ Powerful and poignant and unquestionable in any language. Certainly better than float or saunter or transition, since those begged the question of direction. No, fall was definitely the word for it, irrevocably and hopelessly cast out of heaven, cursed.  ** _Fallen_ ** **.**

Until this very moment, it had never occured to Aziraphale that God might actually have been so righteously furious with the angels who’d questioned her that she’d rendered them flightless. That she’d been so heartless as to truly  _ break _ their wings. 

“Oh Crowley…” the words slip out before he can stop them, and this time Aziraphale flinches, afraid for how the demon will react to his obvious pity. 

Frozen momentarily, the angel takes in a shaky breath when Crowley folds away his wings again, much calmer this time, and he only exhales when-- a bit to his surprise-- the demon leans back slightly. 

Taking his queue quickly, Aziraphale pulls Crowley to him, slipping his legs around bony hips and pressing his hands to a sternum, resting his chin on one sharp shoulder. Crowley’s body goes slack against the angel’s chest, tension draining out of him entirely for a few moments. 

The quiet of the bookshop surrounds the pair, their so very human breathing coming in well-synced rhythms. An indeterminate amount of time passes peacefully before Aziraphale speaks again. 

“I wasn’t lying before, you know,” he starts, murmuring in the demons ear and squeezing him protectively. “I… I guess I didn’t know exactly what… what falling entailed… but they are really beautiful and I still would like to go flying with you… the scarring really isn’t visible through the feathers there’s no reason you should be ashame--” 

A sound so terribly close to sob wracks itself out of Crowley’s throat, and Aziraphale stops, feeling the familiar pounding of the demons heart under this palms. 

“What is it dear?” He asks, holding him imperceptibly closer. “What am I missing?” 

“I don’t think… I don’t think they work… anymore.” 

Aziraphale lets out a small chuckle in spite of himself. “Why of course they do dear! They’re still wings! The laws of physics on this earth haven’t changed since the dawn of time. Air under feathers has always been air under feathers!”

Crowley pulls away minutely, but it’s enough for the angel to release his hold. Turning around to face him, the demon peers into Aziraphale’s blue eyes, silently pleading with him to just  _ understand.  _ To not make him say the hard part. 

By the grace of God...Satan… Someone, this time the angel catches on. 

“You… you don’t  _ think _ … you don’t know, do you? You haven’t tried since… since you fell.” 

It’s not really a question and Crowley’s nod of affirmation is just barely perceptible. Aziraphale closes his eyes gently, reaching up after a moment to brush the demon’s cheek. 

He leans into the touch, clenching his eyes closed too, for a moment. 

When he opens them, its with a sigh, and he clears his throat just slightly, making the angel look up attentively.

“Even if…” Crowley waves his hand in a vague motion that Aziriphale imagines is supposed to mimic flying. “Even if they do… They’re… I haven’t used them in so long I don’t even know if they’d… I could get tired or… And you… you deserve to have fun, if you want to. I know you’ve been holding back for years because  _ they _ were watching… Please don’t… I don’t want you to be stuck because I can’t...” 

“Do you trust me?” 

The question cuts off the demon’s rambling and sounds terribly loaded, but Aziraphale’s face is genuine-- right and truly  _ asking _ as though he’d said something as simple as ‘what’s for lunch?’ 

Crowley’s mouth goes dry nonetheless and he grapples, grabbing the angel’s wrists and stumbling over himself. “Of course Angel!! How could I not? You’ve been… We’ve been! For six-thousand years! I know it took me a bloody long time to say …. But shit! Aziraphale I…” 

The angel smiles then as he grasps Crowley’s face in his hands, thumbing over his lower lip as the demon’s mouth hangs open slightly, having stopped mid-sentence as Aziraphale started to laugh. 

The angel kisses him, once, gently and calmly. He slides his hands down, over Crowley’s neck and shoulders, placing his hands under his elbows. The demon’s hands rest over Aziraphale’s biceps and they sit like that for a moment, holding onto one another. 

He’s sure that Crowley will scoff at him if he gives voice to his next thought-- tease him for being such a sap. And then, he realizes, it might just be the levity they need to return to the regularly scheduled programming of books and wine.

And so, the angel’s next words are said in a rushed whisper, hardly aloud and loaded with mock embarrassment, but genuine nonetheless.

To Crowley, they sound like a benediction.

_ “Next time, I’ll be there to catch you.”  _

He allows himself to smile at that, reluctantly, and Aziraphale smiles back. Just then, a hint of deviousness creeps into the expression-- a look of temptation and indulgence that an angel shouldn’t be able to make-- and one that Crowley doesn’t pick up on until it’s just a second too late.

His grip tightens on Crowley’s arms, fingers pressing in just a little bit  _ too  _ tight, and the demon feels true angelic power swirling around them, feels a bigger miracle than Aziraphale has even dared to think of in centuries being imagined and perfectly performed before his very eyes. The demon realizes precisely what’s about to happen just as it does. 

* * *

The sun barely rises over shimmery white mountains, casting much the same light over the angel and demon as the bookstore lamp was, only moments earlier. A turquoise lagoon glistens far below the pair, just hanging there in the air, still linked at the arms, contrasting wings spread wide. 

Aziraphale throws his head back momentarily, drinking in air that he’d only barely remembered the exquisite taste of. He looks to the demon across from him, face scrunched up and eyes clenched tightly shut. His body is tense, but black wings glisten in the morning sun and flap lazily, supporting his weight with ease, feathers rippling beautifully with the mountain breeze. 

“Crowley love,” he starts, his voice resonant but gentle in the crisp air. “Open your eyes.” 

He shakes his head hard, nearly childish in refusal, but Aziraphale merely smirks, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around his waist, then leaning back to press their hips together and take Crowley’s weight. 

“Angel…” he rasps, eyes still screwed shut, scrambling some before throwing his arms around Aziraphales neck and burying his face in the angel’s shoulder. 

Aziraphale shakes his head affectionately, pressing a kiss to the demon’s temple and whispering in his ear. 

“I’ve got you, I promise.” 

There’s one more still moment, and then he watches as Crowley’s wings flap with purpose, experimentally stretching and flexing once, twice, three times. Golden eyes glitter in the sun as the demon pulls away, floating a few feet from Aziraphale, who smiles thoughtfully. 

Crowley looks down the length of one wing, then another, tilting to one side before smirking and twirling in a tight little somersault in mid air. He looks at the water below and, finding some satisfaction in the fact that its decidedly  _ not _ a lake of sulphur, returns the angel’s mischievous look from the bookshop.

Bright white teeth beam at the angel for a just a moment and then Crowley is gone, curling his wings tight to his body and slipping into free-fall. 

Aziraphale merely stares from above, mouth agape and momentarily stunned.

Shiny wings reappear at the last possible moment, hardly a sliver of black on the deep blue canvas, and before he knows it Crowley rockets past and is high above him, soaring through the sky with impossible strength and grace. 

The sleek feathers reflect the sun and the bright, snowy mountain tops, and as Aziraphale watches on in wonder, Crowley’s wings glow white as heaven.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The flying location at the end I imagine to be an incredibly lovely spot in the Pyrénées Mountains, known as the Pont d'Espagne, on le lac de Gaube. I suggest looking at all the photos on this tourism site, but this is the one that I had in my head the whole time. 
> 
> https://www.lourdes-infotourisme.com/automne_modules_files/pmedia/public/r618972_9_11-2.jpg
> 
> https://www.lourdes-infotourisme.com/web/FR/128-pont-d-espagne.php
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcomed!!
> 
> floweringscrubs.tumblr.com


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